We Find Ourselves at Awkward Angles
by BesserwisserForHire
Summary: Dean is not stalking the weird hippie guy who keeps coming to his office. / Office!AU. Destiel.


A/N: I sat discussing with a friend who doesn't write, and she came up with the idea of buddhist!Cas and office!Dean meeting at the office, and I wrote it and got carried away.

* * *

**We Find Ourselves at Awkward Angles**

He's not wearing any shoes.

The dude's been here a hundred times already and this is the first time Dean notices he's _not _wearing any_ shoes._ His feet are surprisingly clean, with just the hint of dirt smudged between his toes, which are long and bony and sort of awkwardly angled and Dean has to snap himself out of the staring at least three times because woah, staring, toes, _weird_.

Why's he even at the office, Dean hasn't the foggiest. He's been showing up, the shiny and boastfully large lobby seeming big enough to swallow him, yet too small at the same time. The dude would just smile serenely at people and the hectic beeping, screeching, coughing, coffee inhaling stress of the cubicle jungle, would all slowly ebb away. Guy was scruffy and his hippie sweaters looked like they'd been worn too many times, but man, he had an effect on people.

Dean's not gonna talk to him, though. Perfectly content with not-hiding behind a large plant, sipping his coffee while shrewdly gazing over the leaves. Becky the receptionist pretends he's not there and in turn he says nothing about the porn novel he knows she's writing. (It's not very good but Dean still can't stop reading it).

Barefoot Guy keeps coming, twice a week, the same time. Always standing in the lobby, inspecting things curiously, like he's fucking Pocahontas or something and everything around him is one of God's special miracles. He seems utterly fascinated with a ridiculous Elvis bobble head on Becky's desk, one day, which is coincidentally the day Dean notices he's not wearing shoes because _shit fuck damn it_, he's close to him now.

Dean shifts awkwardly behind the plant, not sure whether or not he's been spotted or if he should make a run for it. As the guy and Becky start talking, Dean holds his breath and decides to stay hidden. They talk about bullshit things, like flowers and love and Dean's just about to zone out when they start discussing the Kama Sutra and whether Dean likes it or not, he's all ears.

''I was born with a deficiency'' Barefoot Guy says and Dean thinks that voice is gonna keep him hot and heavy all day. ''I'm _very_ flexible.''

He doesn't say it in a way that sounds lewd. Hell, doesn't even look anything but honest and conversational. Completely casual and Jesus Christ, for some reason that only makes it hotter.

''Oh'' Becky, also, doesn't take it any other way but the sexual way. ''_How_ flexible would – ?'

''Becky, darling! Shouldn't you be working?'' Like he's landed himself in the middle of a fucking high school reunion, another person joins the party just when Dean is starting to feel his thighs cramp.

If they could just leave and let him slink off to his office in peace, to enjoy his cold frapuccino and _not_ be thinking about Barefoot Guy's stupid voice and abnormal flexibility, that'd be peachy, thanks.

''Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Sage! Of course! I was just talking to –''

''Ah, don't let him bother you, my dear'' It's Balthazar, Dean recognizes, the asshole from fourth floor who can't keep his dick in his pants longer than a thought can pass through his head. Dean also hates how he wears ridiculously low cut v-neck shirts despite being way over forty. Despite this, he gets a lot of ass. It must be the accent, Dean thinks, because _man,_ guy could be an asshole. Steals Dean's lunch half the time too, not that he ever caught the bastard at it but it's either him or a ghost of Christmas past and Dean didn't peg those for the pizza loving type.

''Becky, make sure you get the Lichtenberg report off to the big guys before two, alright?''

''Sure thing, Mr. Sage, I – I 'll be right on it'' There's the customary giggle and the flushing of cheeks.

Dean rolls his eyes.

''Alright, then'' Balthazar puts a hand around Barefoot Guy's shoulders and starts shepherding him away from the desk, winking at Becky over his shoulder as they go. ''We're heading out for lunch. You'll behave, won't you, darling?''

Becky just giggles conspiratorially into her scarf and watches their asses as they leave. Once they've disappeared out the main entrance Dean practically falls out of his hiding place, legs trembling with the strain as he leans against the counter and fixes Becky with a judging look.

''Really? _Really_? _Bal_thazar?''

''What?'' Becky huffs. ''He's charming.''

''It's the accent, isn't it?'' Dean shakes his head. ''Gotta be that stupid accent.''

''Oh, like you weren't checking out his friend?''

''I was _not_ checking out –''

''Pff'' She rolls her eyes. ''_Plea_se''

''The dude doesn't even wear shoes!''

Becky turns to him, deadpan stare and mouth drawn into a line of displeasure as if she simply doesn't have time for Dean's bullshit today. He can't help but feel like a small child under the gaze, despite the fact that Becky's younger than him. There's just something very patronizing about her eyes and despite himself he feels a blush creep up the collar of his neck.

''Dean, I'm not _blind_, okay? You think I let you hide behind my plant every time he comes around and _not_ notice how you keep checking him out like he's a fresh piece of pie?'' She shrugs and turns back to the computer. ''Not that I blame you. Guy's got a nice butt.''

''Oh, Jesus fuck'' Dean turns away from her, rolling his eyes until he's sure he can see the back of his skull before turning back to her, a vehement finger jabbing through the air. ''I am _not_ checking out his ass, okay? He's a weirdo and as far as I'm concerned, anyone who associates with Balthazar and is _not_ under the influence of drugs and / or threatened at gun point, is a lunatic.''

''What_ever_''

Dean huffs at her, but when it's clear Becky's not gonna find him more interesting than whatever's on her screen – not those Lichtenberg reports, he's pretty sure – Dean grabs his coffee, now ice cold, and stalks towards the elevators.

* * *

It's the fifth week of Dean not-stalking Barefoot Guy that they actually talk for the first time. He just so happens to have an aquarium in his office – because he's awesome like that – and the dude, silent as a god damn church mouse, fucking _apparates_ into his office and nearly gives Dean a heart attack the size of Detroit.

''What the _fu –''_

''These are very beautiful'' The dude says absently, hands behind his back as he stands, slightly bent over, and watches them with such intense fascination, Dean half expects the stare to pierce the glass and have the water spill all over his office. ''Is that a Siamese Fighting Fish?''

''Why are you in my office?''

The man straightens then, giving him a curious look and – swear to God – tilts his head like a curious bird or something. Dean shouldn't find it cute but does so, anyway.

''I saw your fish and I wanted to take a closer look at them''

''You never heard of _knocking_?''

The man frowns.

''Of course I've heard of knocking''

''Oh, see, 'cus I half suspected you were raised by wolves or something.''

The frown deepens now, and damn, it's attractive. The way tiny lines form between his eyebrows, eyes slightly narrowed as he's irritated and equal parts bemused by the fascinating creature that is Dean Winchester.

''I assure you I was not raised by wolves, I was raised by my human parents in Massachusetts.''

''Gee, David Copperfield, thanks for the info dump''

The man stares at him so long it goes beyond uncomfortable, but being the stubborn bastard that he is, Dean doesn't look away. Even as his tie grows tighter and his palms sweatier, he glares right back into those stubborn, blue eyes and worries they might set him on fire. Dude doesn't even blink, and Dean is 100 % convinced he's not fully human. Maybe a cylon. Yeah, probably a cylon.

''Did you know that you can't have two Siamese Fighting fish in the same tank, for they will fight each other to the death?''

Dean is taken aback by the question, just blinking stupidly at the guy before he starts feeling vaguely threatened.

''Uh, yeah, the dude at the pet store told me.''

Barefoot Guy smiles. ''They kind of remind me of someone.''

''Look, guy, I have a lot of work to do and you're not exactly helping with the work stress, so could you shazam your way out of here so I can get something done?''

The guy nods as if this is not a fully unreasonable request, despite the harsh tone Dean's employed.

''Of couse, my apologies.'' He turns for the door and stops only to nod curtly over his shoulder, face serene and peaceful and perfectly punchable. ''Have a nice day, Dean.''

It's only minutes later Dean realizes the creepy hippie dude knows his name.

* * *

It's not that he cares. It's just that he doesn't like being on uneven footing with people, and an asshole hippie knowing his name while he knows nothing about the guy besides his inhuman flexibility, well, that's unbalancing the equilibrium and then some.

So no, Dean's not curious, and no, the guy does not have a cute butt, despite what Becky says. He's just a guy who wears ugly olive green tunics and doesn't brush his hair and sports a perpetual stubble that Dean wonders, idly, maybe, what it'd feel like against his own cheek. Normal thoughts to have about the guy you hate.

''Why don't you ask Becky? I thought she flirted with him the most''

Pamela's smile is all teeth and innuendo that would make even him uncomfortable, mostly because he wasn't really sure what to do with Pamela's sexual power most of the time. It was raw and hands on and it took him by surprise even after several years of working at the same firm.

''Because – '' Becky's too damn smug and too damn I told you so and too damn squealing happily oh my gosh you should ask him out and send me pictures and Dean just _knows_ she'd put it in her creepy porno novel. ''Becky's insane''

Pamela laughs at that.

''The girl is eccentric, I'll give you that.'' She looks him over curiously.''Why do you even wanna know? You got the hots for this guy or..?''

''Jesus, why does everyone –'' Dean growls into his cappuccino. ''No. I just need to get the low down on him, okay?''

The hunger is back in her eyes when she looks at him again.

''Oh, I bet you wanna get low and down on something, alright''

''_Pam_''

She laughs softly and pats him teasingly on the arm. ''Don't sweat it, sweetheart, I'll go work my charm on him and give you all the deets, that sound good?''

He groans, but nods. ''Yes.''

''Alright, now hop along, 'cus unlike you big shots I have actual work to do.''

Dean cocks a brow. ''I didn't know online tarot readings and sudoku counted as work''

She laughs again, a little louder this time.

''Just beat it, Winchester.''

''Yes, ma'am.''

* * *

Pamela is a fucking godsend. It's Thursday again, which is one of the days Barefoot Guy shows up – and no it's not weird that he knows that, he's simply being perceptive – and Pamela is on him like a hyena. She flirts with Balthazar, who flirts back, and as she moves in on the hippie – who, to Dean's later delight, seems incredibly uncomfortable – she returns with a full list of informaton Dean hadn't even considered asking about.

''So, his name's Castiel –''

''Casti_el_?''

''Mhm''

''What the hell kinda name's Casti_el_?''

Pamela shrugs and leans back in her desk chair. ''It's an angel name.''

''Religious freak?'' Dean grimaces. Figures.

''Well, no, not particularly. He's a buddhist, but his parents are very devout Christians. Catholic, I believe. Don't seem to believe in the whole condom thing, so guy's loaded with siblings.''

Dean takes a brief moment to imagine ten barefoot weirdos running around staring at fish and making awkward conversation all day.

''He likes hamburgers a lot. He knows Tibetan throat singing.''

Somehow, Dean's not surprised.

''And at the very least, he's not straight.''

The last part is said with a wink so filthy Dean feels vaguely dirty meeting her gaze.

''Whatever''

''Just sayin', Winchester, I'd jump him if I were you.''

''Why haven't you?''

She shrugs, clicks idly at her computer. ''I don't think he's into me.''

''You crazy?'' Now it's Dean's turn to make a suggestive face. ''Ass like yours?''

''Dean'' She chastises, but with a smile. ''Just… a little birdie told me he might be into someone else.''

''Someone else?''

She nods again but says nothing more. Dean waits for her anyway, to continue her information, to give him _something_ else, but as a minute ticks by and she's yet to look away from her horoscope readings, Dean realizes this is as far as the train goes.

''Alright'' He says and gets off her desk. ''Thanks, Pam. I owe you one.''

''Buy me a drink, Friday''

He chuckles. ''You got it.''

As he walks away, she turns in her chair to call after him ''And wear those grey pants, I like the way they hug your ass!''

* * *

It shouldn't bother him. I treally should _not_ bother him, but from all that Pamela said, only one thing rolls through his mind over and over. Like the snowball effect, it grows in size with each passing day and when the next Tuesday comes around – another Castiel day – it's so huge Dean thinks his skull might explode.

Interested in someone. Dean tries long and hard to imagine this someone, but there's not a single person at the office that comes to mind who he thinks would like Tibetan throat singing and share a profound hatred for shoes. Not even Pamela, who's all new agey and weird, or Ash, who's always been a bit of an odd one. They're all weird, but not Castiel weird, and Dean doesn't know why but it bothers him immensely that he can't figure this one out.

It also bothers him that it bothers him, and as the week stretches on an unpleasant taste curls in his mouth. Like a bitter grain of coffee has lodged itself in his throat, and though he rinses repeatedly with mouthwash and dumps a ton of sugar into his Extravagant Coffee Concoction of the Day, he can't get that stupid taste out.

He _really_ doesn't want to imagine that it's Balthazar, so he simply ignores that thought and stashes it far, far away where it is unable to bother him.

Dean tries to distract himself and sure enough, for a little while it works. He doesn't even think about Castiel when Tuesday comes. Instead he stays locked in his office, a double bacon burger in his lap and the latest Busty Asian Buties on his desk. The day passes quickly and he doesn't see Balthazar's smug face even once.

So goes Wednesday, and Thursday and Friday and the weekend is spent with Sammy so he doesn't have time for unpleasant thoughts at all. Just beer and really bad movies that they both make fun of, and Jess makes her kickass casserole and Dean passes through Sunday in a post-food comatose bliss.

It's Monday when he realizes that it's not a taste at all, but a feeling, and it's a feeling he does _not_ want to think about. And so, promptly, doesn't.

When Tuesday rolls by Dean is just about to sit down to lunch in his office, again, when there's a gentle knock on the door. He looks up and sees Castiel there, a tentative smile on his face that soon grows into that frown again. He's still not wearing any fucking shoes.

''Hello'' he says, and his voice grates against Dean like someone took sandpaper and brushed it down his throat, deep into his belly.

He has to clear his throat to answer, hoping that Castiel doesn't notice. ''What are you doing here?''

''I thought I'd see what your plans were for lunch''

Suspicion worms its way onto Dean's face. ''Why?''

Castiel tilts his head again. Blue eyes stare at him like he's the most peculiar, most fascinating little monkey in the world.

''To see if you wanted to join us''

''Us?'' Dean cocks a brow. ''You and Balthazar? Yeah, no thanks.''

''You don't like him''

Dean scoffs. ''Ding, ding ding. I think he's a giant dick.''

''That's unfortunate'' he says, voice monotone andd giving no indication of displeasure at all, which is really fucking unnerving and really fucking exciting at the same time. ''I was hoping you'd join.''

''Look, guy, I don't want to join your little lunchtime bookclub, okay?''

''You don't have to be rude''

Dean rolls his eyes, gaze falling to those bare feet again and they make him irrationally angry, for some reason. ''Why aren't you wearing any damn shoes?''

Castiel looks down at his feet. Then back at Dean, face still calm. ''I believe material possessions function only to weigh me down.''

''But clothes are fine?''

''Well, the law tends to frown upon exposure of the human flesh. Frankly, I don't mind either way.''

And _there_ goes Dean's mind straight to Naked Hippie Land with no hopes of returning any time soon.

''So'' Dean clears his throat after much too long a silence has passed, Castiel staring at him relentlessly. ''That's a no for the lunch date.''

''Alright.''

Dean sighs irritably, thankful the guy will finally leave. Only he doesn't leave, and Dean doesn't know why that surprises him because there's nothing this guy does that's fucking normal.

''How about tomorrow, then?''

''Excuse me?''

''Tomorrow'' Castiel tips his head forward, looking at him from under the ridge of his brows, eyes round and earnest. ''Would you have lunch with me tomorrow? Without Balthazar.''

Dean stares at him in silence. Mind working at full capacity to fathom what's just happened and how to properly respond to it like an adult. He goes with the stare-open-mouthed -and-blink-really-fast-approach.

''Are you asking me _out_?''

Castiel looks confused. ''Yes, I thought that was clear?''

Dean splutters, chest suddenly too tight and the room too tiny, too damn cramped and he works at his cuffs almost fervently, like everything is three sizes too small and he's Alice in freaking Wonderland and he downed the wrong drink. Apparently, spluttering does not count as language so while Dean fights to communicate with the grace of a stranded fish, Castiel just tilts his head further and further in curious beffuddlement.

''I –''

''I don't mean to make assumptions, of course.'' Castiel says then, talking slowly like Dean's gonna spook and jump out the window. ''Dean?''

There's something about the way his name rolls out of his mouth, like mountain air or deep forest creeks. Musky attics and knowledge too vast and too heavy to be contained. Still not sure how to word things, or how to even form a thought, Dean lets his mouth run on the first impulse that pops into his brain.

''Sure''

Castiel's brows rise on his forehead. ''Really?''

''Yeah, yeah, sure'' Dean nods not quite unlike a mad person. ''Why the hell not, right?''

It lures a small smile to Castiel's lips, though it is gone just as quickly. Dean doesn't know why but it makes him want to draw out more of those smiles, maybe even a full, throaty laugh if he can. He wants to see gum and wrinkles around his eyes, wants to see if he smells like a dirty hippie or just dresses like one and just _how_ flexible the guy can really be. He almost makes an innuendo about throat singing before he bites his teeth down and stops the words from forming.

''I'll come by tomorrow then'' Castiel says, all cool and easy breeze. ''I'll even wear shoes.''

Dean just stares at him like he's never seen another person before. Castiel watches him, curiously, for a little while longer. They keep up their staring contest for way too long, but Dean finds he doesn't really mind.

''I'll uh'' Dean straightens in his chair. ''See you tomorrow then.''

''Yes'' Castiel nods. ''Tomorrow''

As Castiel walks towards the door, Dean can't help but feel like he should say _something_, and what blurts out of his mouth is something as Pulitzer Prize worthy as ''Namaste''

Castiel frowns at him for a long while, but not entirely without fondness.

''Goodbye, Dean.''

He leaves with a smile and when Dean sinks into his chair all he can think is that he _really_ hopes this won't end up in Becky's stupid story.


End file.
